Lions
by nevthebunny
Summary: If he was going to be brutally honest, Dean Thomas would say their lives had only gotten more complicated after the war. Somehow they seem to have gained three wives, an ex-wife, two girlfriends, seven kids and two step-kids between them. Peace time lives are certainly not boring. Oneshots based around the five Gryffindor boys. Chapter 7 is up. NL/HA NL/LL DT/OC SF/LB H/G R/Hr
1. 1983: Ron, aged 3

**A/N Hi people, I'm back! This is my new series, Lions. I have 60 planned chapters, yes, 60. However, there is no semblence of a regular update system. I will write when the muse comes to me. If chapters are short, they're short. If updates take three months, they take three months. (Though I really aim to publish once a week, on Saturdays.) I am warning you now, please don't moan at me :) (Reviews will shorten that time, not a bribe, a fact.) Thanks for reading :)**

**To those reading my other series, A Conflict of Interests, the next chapter will be up in the next week. Thank you to my long-suffering proofee, HidingBehindASmile for her work on this chapter. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Weasleys or the Burrow or anything.**

* * *

Mrs Weasley scanned around the room, doing a mental headcount whilst trying to contain the many limbs of her wailing two-year-old. She counted three of her boys; Charlie was trailing mud all over the kitchen floor whilst eight-year-old Percy had his head in a book. Fred- or was it George?- sat quietly in the corner, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Shh now, Ginny, dear. Charlie, take your mud out of my kitchen! Go and wash yourself up! Fred, where's your brother?" she demanded sternly, knowing all too well that a missing twin was never a good thing.

Hoisting the screaming toddler onto her hip, Molly hurried further into the house to search for her little toerag, completely overlooking her other missing child.

Ron shuffled into the room, sucking his thumb and clasping his teddy bear tightly, completely ignored by his brothers. He sat on the floor and began to push the teddy around nervously.

"Hey Ronnie," said Charlie, upon seeing his brother. He advanced upon him in a friendly way, seeming to leer above tiny Ron. Charlie ruffled Ron's hair patronisingly. Instantly, Ron attempted to flatten it back, sulkily.

The smallest Weasley backed away in horror as Fred noticed him and an eerie smile set on his face. He snatched up the teddy and squeezed it tightly, muttering to it.

"Ickle Ronniekins," five-year-old Fred teased.

Percy also caught Fred's tone and quickly left, having been on its receiving end once too often.

Mrs Weasley called loudly, "Charlie!" to which the boy in question flinched and hurried up the stairs.

Fred and Ron were left alone.

"It was you who broke my broomstick," Fred said to his brother, with a hint of anger boiling below the surface.

Ron shook his head vigorously, lip trembling, but even this young version of Ron was a terrible liar when faced with the eyes of Molly Weasley, all too present in his older brother.

"You don't have to be scared, Ronnie, I just want you to say you're sorry. Mummy always says we should say sorry when we do bad things," the elder redhead chided in an angelic voice.

After that it all happened rather fast. Fred lashed out, attempting to steal the teddy bear away from his brother. Ron recoiled but clung fast to the bear.

"No! My bear!" he yelled, upset.

The two wrestled for the bear all the way around the kitchen; Fred clearly having an advantage due to his superior size and weight, not to mention slightly advanced years.

However, Ron held his own for such a small child until suddenly it became clear that they were no longer fighting over a small fluffy toy but an extremely large arachnid.

Ron's screams of terror finally alerted their frazzled mother to the dispute and she came running, George in tow, while Ginny's screams added to her brother's. By the time Molly reached them, Fred had scrambled back towards the wall, away from the creature, and Charlie had reached the bottom of the stairs, still dripping mud.

The poor three-year-old was writhing around in the middle of the floor with the huge spider attacking his face, screaming blue murder at his evidently perturbed brother. Mrs Weasley sprang into action but before she could reach her youngest son, the spider was blasted to the ceiling by a sudden jet of air which flew her son onto the top of the kitchen cupboard.

There was a momentary reprieve in the noises filling the air which Molly used to her advantage to turn the offending creature back into Ron's unassuming bear. She turned to glare angrily at Fred.

"Fred Weasley, what have I said to you about tormenting your poor brother? You are supposed to look after him, not terrorise him!"

Fred began to look genuinely afraid.

"Mum, he broke my broomstick," he whined.

"I do not care what he did. Your broomstick broke by accident. No sweets for a month, mister," Molly told him.

"But Muuuum..."

"No buts and don't you start either, George."

Finally the shock had worn off and Ron began to whimper at his current location.

"It's okay, Ronnie. Look, your teddy is fine," Molly began to coax. "Now, just shuffle forwards and put your legs over the edge and I can get you down."

However, even the returned bear could not get Ron to move. He sat there, curled up, for the next fifteen minutes, despite all of his mother's best efforts.

Conditions finally changed when Arthur, completely oblivious, walked through the door.

"Evening, Weasleys," he called loudly, as he was prone to.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Molly called him into the kitchen. "Arthur! I could use a hand here. Now!"

Arthur Weasley thought parenting their seven kids was extremely difficult when he was home but Molly knew that in comparison to her crazy days, Arthur had it easy.

It was much later, when Charlie had finally been convinced to sleep, that the two Weasley parents finally got a chance to talk. As Molly put her feet up, she began to grin to herself.

"Ron showed his magic today," she smiled.

Arthur's eyes widened in shock. "Did he really? What did he do?" he asked enthusiastically.

Slowly Molly explained the day's exciting events.

"... the thing is, Arthur, it was much more powerful than either of the twins or even Charlie, and Percy didn't show his magic until he was five."

"Our Ron is going to be a wizard to watch out for," Arthur nodded in agreement.

Ron Weasley would go on to look back at that day as a time when he was weak. He would assume that, because there hadn't been much fuss about it, his parents hadn't really registered his first use of magic; that they never really saw him as much as his brothers but, from the excitement in Molly's eyes as she thought about her youngest son's future, he couldn't be more wrong.


	2. 1983: Seamus, aged 3

**A/N Hello :) Here's a short chapter about Seamus. Enjoy :) **

**As a side note, I have a oneshot 6-character study centred around the plot for this called Often, Sometimes, Someday. Do read, though it does contain mild spoilers for Neville and Dean's major plotlines. I will attempt to update more often but right now my other fic a Conflict of Interest takes precedence. As another note, this story fits into the universe of all of my other Potter fics except Happy Birthday, Harry. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own or make money from.**

1983: Seamus, aged 3

"Mam, Mam, Mam, Mam," a tiny boy babbled as he hobbled around the first floor of the little house. First light was just creeping over the horizon but this did not deter three-year-old Seamus Finnigan. It was Christmas Day and the boy waddled excitedly into his parents' room.

His mother greeted him with a sleepy, "Merry Christmas, baby," so the boy, whose mind had only one track, hurried around to his father and commenced tugging at his arm.

"Not now, Seamus," his father muttered grumpily.

Yet still the boy was adamant. It was Christmas morning and therefore time for presents.

"Christmas!" he shouted, stomping loudly. "Presents!"

Unbeknownst to the less-than-awake company, several dressing table items began to quiver, a sure sign of what was to come.

* * *

It was several hours before little Seamus got his wish. This time was packed with silly, mundane things like getting dressed and other boring things like calling his grandmother, who deigned to spend twenty minutes talking to his father, and going to church.

Thus, perhaps understandably, the three-year-old was extremely close to a full-out tantrum by the time his presents reached him.

"Presents, presents, presents," he muttered happily as his mother came into sight bearing them.

"Merry Christmas, Seamus."

Unable to wait a second longer, Seamus stretched out a hand eagerly. In a second, a toy car burst out of the wrapping and into his hand.

His father stared, unable to believe it whilst his mother froze in the doorway.

However, little Seamus didn't notice their reactions and started to play with the newly discovered treasure.

"Did you see that?" Cillian Finnigan demanded of his wife. "That car just... flew."

"Yes," she sighed. "Please stay calm. I can explain everything."

Erin sat her husband on the sofa, away from the contented toddler.

"Promise me you'll keep an open mind," she begged nervously.

Cillian nodded. "Of course. You're worrying me, Erin. What's wrong with our son?"

"He's perfectly heathy," she hastened to say. "It's just... Seamus is a wizard."

The witch's admission was followed by a silence from the Muggle which ended with an abrupt cackle.

"A wizard? What are you talking about? Where are you getting this from? Wizards don't exist, Erin!" Cillian exclaimed, starting to get irritated.

"Yes, they do. And I would know because I'm a witch," his wife announced quietly.

Yet Seamus's father was determined to ignore this nonsense.

"Why are you saying these awful things?" he challenged. "My son does not use black magic. He is three years old. As for you, you're a Christian woman, a good woman, not a witch!"

"I'm both," Erin sighed, still keeping her composure. "This is a lot to take in. I'm going to show you."

Taking a deep breath, Mrs Finnigan drew her wand and pointed it at their presently cold wood fire.

'_incendio,'_ she muttered and flames burst, licked and cracked across the logs.

To say Mr Finnigan flipped out would be an understatement.

"Enchantress! Evil hag! Witch!" he hissed at her. "Stay away from my family!"

He flew towards her, gesturing angrily at the door so she grabbed his wrist.

"Listen to me, Cillian, this is my family too. Not all witches are evil, okay? In fact most of them are quite ordinary people..."

"No!" he yelled. "Stop tricking me! What dark magic have you been teaching my son?"

Exasperated, Erin raised her voice. "I haven't taught _our_ son anything! Magic is hereditary and Seamus is a wizard!"

Throughout the argument, the boy in question had been quite obliviously shedding the wrapping paper from his presents. Abruptly, shocking both his parents, the trail of paper in front of Seamus burst into flames.

"Magic," he babbled happily.

**Next chapter: In September 1985, Harry Potter tries to make friends in a world outside of the Dursley house.**


	3. 1985: Harry, aged 5

**A/N: A Levels are hard. I hope to get a few more chapters up soon.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

Harry, aged 5

This was it. Even at five years old, Harry Potter knew what starting big school meant. It meant a place where Uncle Vernon couldn't constantly yell at his uselessness. A place where Aunt Petunia couldn't find another menial task to teach him. And yes, okay, Dudley would be there, much to Harry's chagrin, but there would also be other people of his age. Maybe these kids would like him better!

After all, other than Piers Polkiss, Harry had never seen another child voluntarily spend time with Dudley. Sandpits emptied, kids years older abandoned the swings, seesaw kids only stayed because they couldn't get down. Even here, these kids would spend time with Dudley because the law and their parents said they had to.

So quite understandably, Harry Potter had high hopes for his first day of school. As soon as Aunt Petunia started her long drawn out goodbyes with Dudley, he put as much space between himself and his family as a five-year-old's little legs can manage. In doing so, he walked straight into another child. The little girl was tiny, even smaller than the malnourished boy. She began to topple backwards, arms wind milling like crazy but just before she could hit the floor, Harry's arms shot out and he gracefully caught her, returning her to her proper height.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed desperately. "Please don't be mad."

She looked at him oddly, as though the thought hadn't crossed her mind.

"Tis okay. I'm not hurt," she smiled at him. He smiled warily back. "My name is Louise but my friends call me Lou. You can call me Lou if you want to."

Speechless, Harry merely nodded. Here was a child who was voluntarily talking to him!

"Who are you?" she asked curiously.

Harry fidgeted nervously before pulling up the courage to respond. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter," he said.

Before she could respond, they were abruptly parted by a jostle of small children and swept up in the crowd slowly sneaking up on the looming brick building. School had begun.

* * *

Craning his neck, little Harry looked around the class for the hundredth time that day, still in vain. There was Dudley, unfortunately, and Piers Polkiss, and a group of other like-minded thug-faced boys. There was a little gaggle of girls too, on the other side of the classroom, but none of them was Louise.

Clearly, from the way the other children looked at him, he wouldn't be making any other friends that day. Dudley had got to them first. Who wouldn't choose the big 'angel child' with the menacing mob over the scrawny kid in second-hand uniform three sizes too big? Even at five years old, Harry Potter understood self-preservation.

But maybe Louise wouldn't. Maybe she'd pick him. She'd stand up for him and be his protector. They'd always stick together like those best friends in Dudley's cartoons. Then it wouldn't matter that everyone else ignored and avoided him because he'd have Louise. He'd have a friend.

So Harry Potter had high expectations upon being dismissed for break time. He ran out onto the playground, partly out of a long-refined strategy called Dudley-evasion and partly through excitement and the fear he wouldn't get to her first.

He did. Little Louise skipped happily out of the adjoining classroom, accompanied by a gaggle of girls, all pig-tailed with pink hair ties. She saw him standing there and made a beeline for him.

"Harry!" she exclaimed and Harry felt his world light up with the fact she'd remembered his name. The girls looked with some serious fiery judgement for five year olds at the scrawny boy in front of them and sidled away. She was left alone but unfazed.

"I wanted you to be in Miss Hudson's class but you aren't," she said, looking disappointed. "But will you be my friend anyway? I already have a best friend. Emily's my best friend, but Mummy says I should be friends with boys as well because some of them aren't smelly and then I can be the smart one who knows that."

In his wildest dreams Harry Potter had not expected to gain a friend on his first day of school. He nodded excitedly.

Louise proceeded to use the next ten minutes to tell Harry her life story, barely pausing for breath but Harry didn't care. He could honestly not remember ever being so happy and, sadly it seemed he wouldn't be so again for perhaps six years as just at that moment a looming darkness overshadowed them.

The bulky figure of Dudley Dursley, impressively immense even at five years old, advanced towards them, having picked his next target. He was flanked by Piers Polkiss and another boy Harry had never met by the name of Sean Shepard.

Harry began to shrink away but Louise just looked straight up into the bully's eyes with a deep-seated curiosity. However, it soon faded to be replaced by horrified surprise as Dudley ripped the small blonde doll from her arms. Poor Barbie was hung by her legs from the boy's pudgy fingers.

"You," he said slowly, pointing. "Don't talk to him. No one talks to him. Or else."

His backup nodded, repeating his words like goons and to illustrate his point, Dudley swiftly and harshly decapitated the sorry doll, throwing her head across the asphalt. Louise, strong, unshakeable, uncaring Louise burst into tears, looking in horror at the boy whom mere association with had caused this ritual sacrifice. She ran screaming across the playground.

That was the last Harry Potter every really heard from Louise. Obviously, he grew up alongside her and was surprised to find her later dating Sean Shepard but she never sought him out again and from his approach the following morning she began to practise evasive tactics rather than disobey the law of Dudley Dursley, King of the Playground.

As for Harry, in that moment he truly understood the nature of his life for the near future. Dudley's laws were followed to the letter by all; there would be no escape even outside of his Aunt's kingdom. He summoned up a look containing every ounce of hate left inside him and fled to sit against the wall, curled in a ball, so that their amusement wasn't turned on him (it was, both that day and on many days to come).

The rest of the day passed in misery until Harry found himself once more locked in his cupboard, all the hopes of the morning dashed, crushed and stamped on. He sobbed and sobbed, but as silently as he could so as not to alert his relatives. Little Harry Potter's despair was such that he didn't notice the rays of light flowing from his nightlight detach themselves and begin to dance from the low ceiling to the dank floor. Even if he had he would have dismissed it as a dream. After all, many things flew in his dreams which decidedly didn't in the real world, like motorbikes.

**Next chapter: In 1988, Neville's Uncle Algie is determined to prove he isn't a Squib.**


	4. 1988: Neville, aged 8

**A/N Hello! As penance for my ridiculous workload keeping me from writing, have a double update! Merry Christmas!**

Neville, 8 

"Honestly, Algie, Frank would be ashamed. We're going to have to face facts. Neville is a squib. He has to be to not have shown any magical ability at this point."

Young Neville Longbottom knew his grandmother thought this of him but at eight years old hearing it confirmed for the first time hurt. He slunk into the garden; plants being the only thing he knew that weren't disappointed in him. They didn't judge. Even his dad's old cat, the only memento he had of him, always fixed him a steely glare of disdain.

As an eight-year-old having grown up constantly in the shadow of two incredibly brave parents who had suffered a fate worse than death fighting for what was right, poor Neville always felt unwanted, not good enough. The one thing he wanted more than anything else was to see her look at him and say those four words: "I'm proud of you." His lack of magic wasn't for lack of trying, though. In fact, the person most disappointed at his apparent Squib tendency was Neville himself.

Yet he did have an affinity with magical plants. Augusta had no idea how often her grandson would sneak into her greenhouses; she believed it was her 'expert attention' that gleaned such great results from them. On this particular afternoon, Neville busied himself with the flutterby bushes.

Great-Uncle Algie had arrived at exactly half past three with his wife, Enid. He was the one member of the family that hadn't signed the boy off as a lost cause and honestly Neville wasn't sure if that was better or worse than his grandmother's reaction. Algie seemed to take it as his job to force Neville into displaying some magical ability and in all honestly Neville had been a little afraid of him ever since he was nearly drowned off Blackpool Pier.

The first words Algie had said to Mrs Longbottom that day had been enough to encourage the boy into hiding in the greenhouse for two hours.

"Augusta," he had greeted her. "Where is that wayward grandson of yours then, eh? I think I know how to coax that magic out of him."

His two hours were up, however, when Gran called him to dinner. He had two choices: go out and face Algie or stay put, be discovered within ten minutes and have to face her wrath as well as the great-uncle.

He may have been next to useless but he was no idiot. Facing Algie was the only plausible option. Neville slunk tentatively from the spider's breeding ground and arrived in the house covered in webs and dirt.

"Neville!" his grandmother admonished shrilly. "I don't know what he does to get in this state, Enid. Frank was never like this," she added as she attempted to dust him down.

Grinning like the Chesire Cat, Algie approached the boy and ruffled his hair. "How ya doing there, my boy?" he asked heartily.

Neville flinched and gratefully took the opportunity to help Great Aunt Enid carry the plates in. However, on his way out of the kitchen his arm brushed against an object on the counter, causing it to splatter all over the floor. This, of course, would have to be the dessert (prompting another "Oh, Neville!" from his grandmother).

Thankfully, the rest of the main course passed without incident. Neville was starting to believe that perhaps he was safe this time around when Enid banished them all from her kitchen as she whipped up something new for dessert, at which point Augusta began to protest that they couldn't possibly wait a few hours to finish their tea and Enid shot her down, as happened frequently in the kitchen jurisdiction. Neville could have happily listened to the two women's argument but this was the time that Algie deemed to take him aside.

"Neville, my boy," he grinned, and that was how the horror of the afternoon truly began.

Firstly, Algie, after relocating to the first-floor sitting room, regaled the boy with tales of his youth at Hogwarts; torture for it seemed Neville would never have such an immensely exciting youth. Then, and Neville wasn't sure which was worse, he began to ask the eight-year-old about his week which, honestly hadn't been as exhilarating as Algie seemed to imply it should have been.

Clearly, however, all this chatter was just a ruse to put Neville off his guard.

"It's getting stuffy in here," said Algie as he went to throw the windows wide open. Looking out, he seemed to see something and began to chuckle. "I say, my boy, come and look at this!" he exclaimed.

So Neville did and in the next second found himself upside down outside the window, suspended by his ankles. It seemed quite a long way down.

"Uncle Algie!" he screamed in fear.

"Come on, Neville, son, back inside with you," Algie smirked.

"I can't. I can't. I can't."

It's quite interesting what you notice about your back garden when hung upside down from the first floor. For example, the paving stones were uneven and thus had sharp corners sticking up. The rose bushes really weren't that far from the house. Augusta's patio furniture seemed black, not navy blue, from directly above it.

Neville writhed and shrieked but his cries had no effect on Algie who continued to goad him into using magic. Suddenly, Neville found himself swinging wildly like a pendulum. His Great-Uncle had let go of one of his legs and was leaning casually on the window sill.

"Please, Uncle Algie! Help! Help!" Neville sobbed.

Luckily, Neville's reprieve came in the form of Enid. She called up the stairs at her husband.

"Algernon, your dessert is ready. Come down here and leave the boy alone."

So Algie vacated his spot by the window and descended the stairs, quite unaware of what he had forgotten until his feet hit the bottom step.

"Where's my grandson got to?" Augusta called as a screaming blur came flying from above the window to hit the ground with an audible crack.

As the ground came hurtling up towards him, Neville cried out. If there was ever a time for his magic to present itself, it was now. That was all Neville could ever remember thinking in that moment. Well, that and 'AAAAAAAARGH'. But then, as the ground came up towards him, he felt himself slowing to the point that he felt like he was drifting in the ocean and the world around him gained a dreamlike quality.

Then he hit the ground. Only it wasn't hard and painful. The solid patio felt like the springs of a mattress as it launched him back into the air. Some seven bounces later, he landed in a heap on a tiny crest above a stream, before rolling half-heartedly down it.

Augusta came rushing up. "Neville!" she screamed. "Neville!"

As soon as she found him, she pulled him upright and began to dust him down.

"Are you alright?" she demanded. "No injuries?"

Seeing that her grandson was unharmed she let out an unbecoming shriek of realisation as Algie and Enid caught up. "Neville! You have magic!"

"Eh, good on you, lad," Algie grinned. "I told you I had a plan."

However, this may have been the wrong thing to say since Augusta rounded on him as the shock wore off.

"You could have killed him, Algernon!" she yelled. Pulling a terrified face, Algie began to hobble back towards the house. "You'd better run! Wait until I get my hands on you!" she cried, giving chase.

Neville was left alone, battered but unshakeable in his triumph. He would go to Hogwarts. He wasn't a disappointment. He, Neville Longbottom, was a wizard.

* * *

It didn't even matter that the throngs of people kept knocking him over. Neville clutched Uncle Algie's robes for dear life. Today he was getting his reward. Uncle Algie was going to buy him a pet that he could take to Hogwarts! The whole thing still felt like a dream.

"Here we are, my boy," Algie's booming voice finally announced. "Magical Menagerie."

Neville's little heart sank. Clearly he wasn't getting an owl or they would be at Eeylops.

His Great-Uncle seemed to read his mind. "Now I know you wanted an owl," he said. "But they're a lot of work. You want a pet that's nice and easy to look after. Besides, you can't keep an owl in your dormitory with you, now can you?"

Maybe not. Neville nodded to himself, slowly becoming content with the idea of a cat or a rat. His mother had had a rat.

However, when Algie reappeared, ten minutes after he had harangued the salesperson into allowing him to barter in the back room, he held a small green thing between his hands. It blinked awkwardly: a toad.

"Here you go, Neville, my boy," Algie grinned toothily. "I had a toad when I went to Hogwarts. My best friend, Cecil was."

Despite himself, Neville looked into the little creature's eyes. All thought of the embarrassing stigma attached to toads disappeared as he immediately loved the tiny thing. Algie was right; an owl wouldn't do. This toad was so very Neville. He reached out and slowly took it from his uncle, in rapture. It yawned.

"What'cha going to call him, kid?" his uncle asked.

Neville thought for a moment. "Trevor," he replied.

**A/N Up next: Dean finds out he's a wizard and confides in friends old and new. **


	5. 1991: Dean, aged 11

**A/N Aaaand second update. Enjoy :)**

Dean, 11

Caty sat patiently on a swing in the empty playground. He'd promised he would meet her and finally explain what was going on. It was April; the previous week he'd been pulled out of school by his mother and a strange bearded man and she hadn't seen him since.

The rumour flying around the town was that the old man was some long lost relative on his father's side who was engaging Mrs Thomas in a custody battle. It was well known, and frankly obvious to anyone looking at the pair, that Mr Thomas was not Dean's father.

Finally, the gate creaked open and the slim form of Dean Thomas slunk inside. He slumped and shuffled forward looking downcast.

"Hey," Caty greeted him.

"Hey," he replied, coming to sit on the next swing.

"You alright, Dee?"

Dean sighed. He didn't beat about the bush. "You remember my 'special abilities?'"

Caty nodded. Throughout the time she had known him, inexplicable things had happened around the boy. They'd always wondered why this happened. Now, it seemed, Dean had found out.

"I won't be going to the comprehensive with you in September," he continued miserably.

"Why?" she asked, beginning to worry.

"I'm going to a school in Scotland. A special one, for people like me. I'll board there."

Caty took a second to allow the influx of information to sink in.

"But you'll be home for Christmas and the summer?" she asked desperately.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, as though it were obvious. "Otherwise I would've refused to go."

Caty was incredibly relieved.

"Well, that's okay then."

"I'll miss you, Kay," he sighed, but she picked up his hand to reassure him, a simple gesture between two children.

"Of course you will, I'm your best friend. But I'll be here. You'll make other friends, people like you."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Are there really others?" she asked excitedly.

"Yeah," he grinned happily, "But I can't say any more. I shouldn't have even said that. Professor Dumble... something or other said that there's some sort of secret law against telling normal people. Mum says we have to tell people I got some scholarship to a posh school for my schoolwork."

Caty snorted. "No one's going to believe that, idiot."

"Oh, really?" Dean retorted teasingly. "Still friends?" he asked her seriously.

She grinned. "You can't get rid of me," she replied.

* * *

All of the crowds were disorienting, frightening even, for an eleven year old, even a tall one like Dean. Yet that was nothing compared to the sheer terror of running directly at a solid brick wall.

Once through, Dean was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes. The collection of people gathered was so diverse: there were 'Muggles' like his mother, wizards, kids, teenagers, parents, grandparents and people of all the races and religions he could think of.

Dean's parents, as it turned out, had been very accepting of his 'abilities'. In fact, his mother had acknowledged that it was entirely possible that his father could have been a wizard; she had always thought there was something off about him, other than just being a jerk who abandoned them.

It was his mother who was standing beside him. Dean's stepfather was home with his sisters; it would have been unfair to expose them to a world they'd likely never see.

As Dean took in the scene, steam billowed from the scarlet engine.

"You're sure you want to do this?" his mother confirmed for the final time.

Dean nodded. "I feel like I belong here," he told her. "These people are all like me."

Mrs Thomas smiled at her son's excitement.

"Come on then," she said. "You'd better go and find a seat."

Hugging his mother gratefully, Dean parted from her with a goodbye.

"Be safe! Remember to write!" she called after him.

Tentatively the tall first-year made his way along the train. There were compartments full of older students, noisy students, snogging students and one particularly terrifying bunch in green. Quite near to the back there was a compartment close to packed with students looking about the same age as him. In one corner sat a trio of quiet-looking boys next to a pair of twins whom a sandy-haired boy appeared to be attempting to strike up a conversation with.

Dean slid the door open nervously, deciding that these people were the least intimidating. Every eye turned to look at him.

"Hi," he began lamely. "I was wondering if there was room for me in here?"

The darkest of the quiet boys fixed him a look. "There are already seven people in here. Obviously there isn't enough room."

The sandy haired boy, however, ignored him. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "The more the merrier. My name's Seamus, I'm new too."

"I'm Dean," he told his new friend.

Dean reached the tiny spot Seamus made for him and managed to attract his mother's attention, waving goodbye to her just as the train pulled away.

"So where are you from, Dean?" Seamus asked eagerly. "I'm from Ireland."

Dean nodded, though he didn't really know where Ireland was.

"London," he shrugged.

"Cool!" exclaimed Seamus. "I've always wanted to go there! That's where the Ministry is, have you been?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know what you mean, sorry."

Eventually Seamus cottoned on to that fact that Dean was muggle-born.

"So you don't know about Quidditch or the houses or anything?" he asked incredulously. "My dad doesn't like us to talk about magic but me mam made sure I knew everything I needed to. I can't believe you don't know anything!"

Dean looked at him apologetically and Seamus was off. He told his new friend everything he could want to know about Hogwarts, Quidditch, and the Wizarding World to the point that Dean couldn't fathom that there would be anything more to learn.

"So what house d'you reckon you'll be in?" Seamus asked excitedly. "I want to be a Gryffindor!"

The dark-haired quiet boy scoffed. "Oh please," he said. "No one with half a brain wants to be in Gryffindor."

"No one asked you, Corner," Seamus sneered, as if he had met the boy many years ago, though he hadn't.

"Don't listen to him, Dean," Michael Corner said. "Ravenclaw is the place you want to be."

Seamus just laughed and addressed the girls. "Which side are you on?"

Immediately both girls replied, one with "Yours" and the other "Michael's". They then did a double take and looked at each other in surprise.

Luckily Dean was saved from having to pick a side by the appearance of a round-faced boy looking nervous.

"Hi," he said. "You... You haven't seen a toad, have you?"

He looked close to tears but Dean was forced to reply, "No, sorry."

"I've lost him! My gran's going to kill me!" the boy exclaimed before rushing down the corridor, tripping over his own feet.

* * *

Truly, Dean was not prepared for his first experiences of the magical world. The man calling to the first years from the end of the platform was _huge_. Everywhere he looked, just like the other platform, there were noises and smells and owls and strange contraptions.

"Come on, Dean," hollered Seamus. "This way!"

They joined an orderly queue and filed off down the path amid whispers of 'Harry Potter, is that Harry Potter?'

"Hey, Dean, look," Seamus hissed in his ear. "That's Harry Potter!"

He was pointing at an unremarkable black-haired boy with glasses, flanked by a red-faced redhead.

"Is he famous?" Dean asked, confused as to why this seemed so notable.

"Oh, you're kidding me!" Seamus exclaimed. "You don't even know who Harry Potter is?"

Dean didn't and it seemed he wouldn't for quite a while as Seamus didn't deign to tell him.

"_Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o 'Hogwarts in a sec,"_ said the giant. _"jus' round this bend here."_

Seamus was craning his neck to see but Dean didn't need to. As he looked up he was frozen to the spot in awe. Hogwarts wasn't just a school, it was a _castle._ A huge, magical, beautiful castle. They were stood on the edge of a vast and deep lake and Dean could honestly say he had never been somewhere so beautiful. Home had been the hugely urban setting of London but now Dean had a new home.

**A/N Up next: a jump in time sees Seamus hitting rock bottom in 1999. **


	6. 2000: Seamus, aged 20

Seamus, aged 20

The man lounged at the bar, clutching his third firewhiskey. He was the type of man, well young man really, who looked like he could be attractive if he cleaned up a little and that created a modicum of intrigue. But as it was, he really had seen better days. Seamus wore jeans that could easily not have been changed in a week or two and his prided five o clock shadow was officially five day scruff. Luckily for him, however, his straight sandy hair was incapable of picking up bedhead and the bags had yet to settle under his eyes.

As such, a young woman approached him.

"Hi," she flirted.

"Hi to you too, beautiful," he grinned with an imperceptible wink.

He knew from months of experience that she was his already. After five minutes of small talk, during which she had edged closer and closer, she pushed his low-hanging fringe out of his face, revealing the skinny scar that ran along his hairline. She stopped short.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked, curiously.

He smirked. "Oh, you know, Battle of Hogwarts," he baited apparently offhandedly.

She took the bait and five hours later he found himself sneaking out of her tiny London flat, staggering about in confusion and general drunkenness.

* * *

He awoke to a flat that would have been dingy if it weren't for the pink throw cushions. They weren't just everywhere, they were _everywhere._ Seamus groaned as he rolled over to find his head soaking wet. Slowly, he realised that the rolling fields visible through the patio door meant he was no longer in London and came to recognise his surroundings. This made him groan again.

"What did you do that for, you...?" Seamus trailed off at the glare coming from his friend who sat in front of him, looking none too pleased with him.

"It was funny," she said bitterly. "Ha bloody ha. Almost as funny as the pig who woke me up at four in the morning, drunk."

He ignored her and attempted to sit up.

"How in all hell did I get here?" he demanded.

"Gee, thanks for taking the effort to get all the way out of the house, wingardium me in and find me a blanket, Lavender. You're a great pal. Oh, and while we're at it I was thinking of popping round to see you five years next Tuesday, does that suit you?" she deadpanned back.

"Oh, leave me alone, Lav."

He swung his legs off the sofa and stood up, but, sadly, was impeded by the spinning coffee table, which he promptly fell through.

"Bloody... _reparo," _he muttered, aiming his wand at the thin shards.

"I don't think I know you anymore, Seamus Finnigan," she said. Her voice was calm, with the barest hint of anger, such a contrast to the raging screeches of the past. "You're rude. You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself. Where's Dean, huh? Do you even know what he's up to?"

"He's not interested in me. Dean got his N.E.W.T.s. He's going places in life. I'm stuck with all the old fools for the rest of my life."

"Merlin, Seamus!" yelling angrily, she wheeled up to him in advance. "You aren't the only one who hasn't got N.E.W.T.s! In case you haven't noticed, I don't have them or the ability to stand! But I'm doing just fine, thanks for asking. You're just pathetic."

He ignored her tirade, as always, and pushed into her kitchen.

"Got any food, Lav? I'm starving."

That was the last straw.

"Get the hell out," she hissed. When he looked at her in bewilderment she shouted. "Get out of my house, right now! I've had enough, Seamus. Next time I'm not picking you up off that floor. You can stay there. Live your life however the hell you want, I'm done trying to fix you! Just go."

And he laughed. He flat out laughed in her face.

"Merlin, _Lav_, you're so whiny. Will that never change? Looks like you can take the able and beautiful out of Lavender Brown but you'll never get deep enough to get rid of the bitch."

Being a tad out of things, Seamus's reflexes were not sharp enough to avoid Lavender's hexes as she added a word to each blow.

"Says. The. Man-whore!" she screeched.

Defending his face with his hands he finally scrambled out of the door and disapparated in terror.

She, by contrast, wheeled over to smooth down his blankets, ready for another night, as a single teardrop fell and she was left alone.

* * *

Several hours later, a sandy haired man sat in a bar, winking at a lone blonde and the cycle began again.

The house was quiet in the small hours. It was peaceful and, above all, free from the nightmares and fears of the empty darkness. Lavender, however, managed to busy herself, brewing a tea and pulling the blanket on the sofa over an intoxicated form once again.

* * *

**A/N Up next: In 2007, Caty bumps into a man she hasn't seen in 9 years and discovers just how different his life is.**


	7. 2007: Dean, aged 27

2007: Dean, aged 27

"Look, I'm trying to be sympathetic here, Dawn, but that is seriously his problem. It's not for me to get involved in... Watch out, you arse!"

At 27 years old, Caty was rather different from her 11 year old self. She swore loudly as the tall man knocked her flying, while trying desperately to keep hold of the flailing baby.

"Where the hell did you come from?" she yelled angrily, scrambling after her skidding phone on the ground of the busy London street. It was a valid question; he seemed to have appeared from the middle of nowhere between a HMV and a Starbucks.

"Oh, Merlin, I'm so sorry," he apologised, offering her his hand. Reluctantly, she took it and found herself looking into the elongated and suddenly handsome face of Dean Thomas.

"Wait, Caty?" he inquired, with a cute confused face.

"Dean Thomas?" she asked, equally incredulously.

"Wow. I... How are you?"

Caty straightened up and took a moment to take in the... addition in Dean's arms. He (and she was fairly certain it was a he, despite the head of beautifully formed curls) was about 6 months old and resembled Dean in almost every facial feature but she could see evidence of the woman involved in his silky black hair and slightly paler skin tone. Overall, he was an extremely handsome child.

"I'm good, yes. Wow, it's been a long time. What was it, '99?" she replied.

"'98," he corrected automatically.

"Almost ten years," she smiled, a little awkwardly, remembering the circumstances of their estrangement.

"More like 9," he corrected, again.

"And I see you haven't changed," Caty laughed. "Still all about the correctness."

He mumbled an apology, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious of the as-yet-unmentioned weight on his arm.

As if on cue, she finally brought him up.

"I see you've been busy. Do I know the missus?" she asked, trying to keep a neutral tone. It's your own fault you couldn't have him, she reminded herself. Well, actually...

"No, I doubt it. She's from... my new life," he said uncomfortably. "And, actually, she's not in the picture anymore," he added, unsure quite why it seemed so important to mention.

She nodded, becoming more and more intrigued by the second. Suddenly, someone else walked into her and Dean tried to make himself rather comically smaller. His bag made rather a clatter against his back as he did so, even for its size.

"This isn't really the place for our little catch-up," Caty observed wryly.

"No, yeah, right," Dean mumbled, looking a little muddled. "Yeah, um, sorry. It was good to see you again, I guess."

Checking his baby was secure, he turned to find a gap in the crowd.

"Dean," she called softly. "That didn't mean I didn't want to have it. The catch-up. I'm still living near-ish the old area. Your mum has my address. I'd love it if you would pop by."

Dean smiled eagerly. "I'd like it too," he grinned. "Wait... why does my mum...?"

Caty had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "I didn't really mean some of those things I said," she admitted, "but I was too proud to come crawling back to you."

Dean nodded understandingly. "Okay," he said quietly. "Well, I'll see you soon." He nodded awkwardly, debated whether to go for a hug or a hand shake, decided neither was appropriate and turned once more to leave.

"One more thing," Caty called after him loudly. "What's the kid's name?"

Dean smiled as he turned, still backing away. "Jay," he called back. "Just Jay."

* * *

It was actually a surprisingly nice area. Dean didn't know why he'd been expecting a hellhole, after all, he didn't know anything about what she was up to now. By the looks of it, whatever it was, it paid well. Baby securely strapped to his front, Dean buzzed the flat.

"Caty, it's Dean."

"Come in." It was hard to tell her tone from the metallic monotone of the two words. Dean found himself already trying to analyse exactly how she felt about this 'catch up'. Was all really forgiven? Was she wary of him or pleased to have an opportunity for a second chance?

As soon as he stepped into the flat, Dean felt scruffy. He was standing there in jeans that were more tears than material, his hair had grown shaggy and he hadn't shaved in about four days. It wasn't until he was faced with the immaculate appearance of Caty's life that it had quite hit him how much he had been neglecting his own.

"Hey," Caty smiled awkwardly.

"Hi," he acknowledged. "Erm, nice place."

"Thanks," she nodded awkwardly. "You still take your tea black with two sugars?"

"Oh, yes, please," he said, noticing the boiling kettle in the kitchenette. "Do you need any help with..."

"No," she replied firmly. "Go and make yourself comfortable."

So as Caty made tea, Dean settled himself into a cream sofa uncomfortably.

She brought it in. A restless silence ensued. She eyed him and the baby, taking a moment to fully marvel in the concept of her childhood crush as a single father. She had questions about the mother, of course she did, but somehow she doubted he'd answer them. Thankfully, Dean chose that moment to ask the question that had been plaguing him.

"This is quite different to the old place. What are you working in?" he attempted to phrase the question in a non-nosy fashion.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to think he'd overstepped; she just laughed. "Yeah. I got my decree and went into business. I won't bore you with the details but it is pretty lucrative."

Dean gave a low whistle. "I always knew you were smart but whew, that's impressive."

"Thanks," she laughed, feeling an old ease creep back in between them. "What about you? You said... last time... that you wanted to go back to school?"

The edges of the young man's mouth clamped together slightly; this was entering dangerous ground. He couldn't tell her much but he didn't want to open up the wounds of the old argument, not when they were so close to starting afresh.

"I did," he nodded. "I got my N... qualifications and I work in... well I can't say much, but it's essentially government records. Or it will be. I'm in the middle of switching jobs."

Caty sighed to herself. That was all she would get out of him and it was more than she'd heard of his life since he was eleven years old. No matter how close they got again, that secret would always be between them, she had at least learnt that from this reunion. And what kind of qualification began with an N?

But this did create an opening to find out more about the illustrious mother of his son. Despite herself, Caty continued to find herself truly intrigued by the story behind that. The Dean Thomas she had known had not been the type to have casual relationships, nor the kind of person women were ashamed of. Try as she might, she could not conjure up a situation which resulted in him here in her flat with a 6-month-old baby.

"Working with the ex or something?" she asked, attempting casually.

He laughed, which she loved. Somehow when Dean Thomas laughed his black as night eyes sparkled and gained a sudden life.

"No," he said. "Actually, it's a great opportunity to get out of a stuffy office into something I'm a little more into."

Dean's chin dropped a little in disappointment as he realised how little he could really tell her, despite his passion for the subject matter. "Look, I shouldn't tease you with things I can't tell. Not after last time," he sighed. "And I know you want to know about Jay's mother but I can't tell you that either. No one except me knows who she is. She wants it to stay that way and I respect her wishes."

That was respectable but Caty couldn't quite believe that no one knew. "Not even Seamus?" she asked, a steely edge to her voice as she mentioned the name.

"No, not even the spawn of hell, as you prefer to call him," Dean attempted to joke.

The joke had the opposite of its intended effect. A sudden seriousness entered the room. Caty stood up abruptly and crossed to join him on the sofa, looking up into his dark eyes to speak quietly to him.

"Everything's okay, isn't it? In _your_ world."

He understood and nodded. "The war's over. Things are getting better. This little tyke is going to grow up in a safe world, that's what matters."

* * *

Dean couldn't believe his eyes. The kid that just a year ago had shown up as little more than a dot on his doorstep was slowly but surely making his own way across the floor towards him on his little feet. Suddenly, Dean felt the overwhelming need to just pick up a phone. No sooner than he had thought this, he found the phone in his hand.

Next problem: who to call. Few of his Wizarding friends _had_ phones and they weren't the ones he should call. There was his mother but it was a Saturday and she would almost certainly be out.

He found himself on the phone to a childhood friend.

"Hello?" she queried, sounding a little confused.

"Caty," he said. "Sorry, I'm not sure why I just called you." He masked his sudden onset of nerves with a little chuckle.

"O-kay," she replied, waiting for him to elaborate.

Unable to contain his excitement a second longer, Dean whispered with the pure feeling of a joyful shout, "Jay's walking!"

"Oh my god!" Caty exclaimed. "That's so awesome!"

Dean laughed or cried, he wasn't quite sure which it was.

"Caty, my son is walking!" he exclaimed, sounding shocked.

"I know, Dee, you idiot," she laughed back. It was so natural, the progression back to his old nickname; the nickname of a simpler time. So natural that he used hers too.

"Kay, for the first time I think I can do this. I can raise this kid," Dean said, elated.

"Of course you can," Caty said seriously. "You are going to be a great dad, Dean Thomas."

* * *

"Kay, seriously, what the heck do I do?" Dean demanded of the phone pressed into his shoulder as he juggled the screaming toddler.

Caty just laughed. "Don't ask me, Dean. You're the parent here."

"Not helpful," Dean growled as he surveyed the damage wreaked by the eighteen-month-old. "I stepped out for two seconds, I swear. I'm such a terrible parent."

"No, you're not, Dee," she reassured him softly. "Honestly, I think you're doing great."

"I don't have enough arms to deal with him and all the broken crockery!" he exclaimed. "How did he even... oh crap," Dean came to a sudden realisation and couldn't stop talking fast enough. "I'm going to have to call you back, Kay..."

"'Kay," Caty quipped, smiling to herself. "Look after yourself, good luck!"

Dean put the phone down and looked once more at the mess that covered the floor, all the walls and the ceiling. He looked to his son.

"Merlin, you powerful little wizard, you," he grinned. "I'm going to have to baby-wizard-proof this place aren't I?" He may have faked annoyance but pride-filled tears brimmed in the eyes of Dean Thomas as little Jay chuckled mischievously.

Dean pulled out his wand and aimed it at the broken plates strewn over the floor. "_Reparo,"_ he muttered, rolling his eyes.

* * *

**Up next: In 2008, Neville makes a discovery that affects several areas of his life.**


	8. 2008: Neville, aged 27

**A/N Hey people. In an attempt to get this fic finished before I'm 80, I'm cutting about 10 of the planned chapters. They'll mainly be fluffy Harry and Ron chapters unfortunately, because I love me my angst. Hopefully that'll mean I'm a bit more motivated to post more regularly :) Enjoy this Neville entry.**

Neville, aged 27

And he had found it. It had taken the Auror ten years to become comfortable with investigating abandoned houses, infected with all sorts of mould and insect life, neglected to the point of being unnerving. No, comfortable isn't the right word. He will never be comfortable searching the empty shells of homes for the inevitable skeletons that are left there; after ten years, what else would there be?

This house, this shack, was perhaps a little worse than some of the others. There was no sign of an epic battle, there was no tip-off from surviving muggle-borns who lived there for a few months. No, this tip-off had come from the middle-aged woman from over the hill, recovering her memory. She had seen the Dark Mark hovering over this place in the Spring of '98. No Auror ever wanted to hear about the spring of '98. And indeed, there was no evidence that anyone ever lived here, either, not even the man who was lying at Neville's feet.

It was unlikely this hit was actually Voldemort. The shack was in the middle of nowhere. No one _that_ important was still unaccounted for. The man's wand was still firmly clutched in his left hand, but that was only the first warning bell going off in Neville's head. The man had fought back; who would fight back against Death Eaters, most likely outnumbered and exhausted? Who could?

"Over here," Neville yelled, finally finding his voice. Two other wizards jogged into the room from opposite directions.

"Ooh, poor lad," one of Neville's colleagues from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol muttered sympathetically. "You got the facial rec thingy?" he asked the other man, who promptly pulled a rather interesting-looking device from his pocket and proceeded to scan the skull with it.

"So who d'ya reckon 'e was?" one of the men continued to jabber but Neville, caught in a moment of shock, began to tune out as he noticed the object enclosed in the victim's right hand.

It was gold and round, looking almost identical to a Galleon, but it wasn't one. Neville knew that, though his colleagues wouldn't. He finally allowed himself to accept the little signals that had been adding up in his brain. The Spring of '98. Left handed. The vaguely familiar, come to think of it, wand. And now this. A Dumbledore's Army Galleon. Had he bewitched it to send letters instead of numbers? He was certainly smart enough. Or was it just for comfort in those last moments?

Neville sank to the floor in defeat, clutching the rescued little coin, much as its owner would have.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley," he said quietly. "His name was Justin Finch-Fletchley."

His colleagues looked at him as if he were utterly bonkers.

"You alright there, Neville?" the one with the device asked as it beeped and scrolled through every missing wizard on record.

"Yeah, mate, you aren't looking too good," the other one agreed. "And who's Finch-Fletchley?"

The device beeped one final time as it stopped on a picture of a curly haired blond.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin. Muggle-born," said the device Auror in amazement. "How on earth could you tell, Neville?"

Neville took a deep breath. He held up the coin. "This," he said briefly.

"It's a Galleon, mate," said his first colleague patronisingly.

Neville just shook his head slowly.

"It's a Dumbledore's Army communications device," he told them. "Hermione Granger made 28 of these back when we started up. There are only 28 in existence. 6 are in a vault in Gringotts, 21 are accounted for. This is the last one. It belonged to Justin Finch-Fletchley, Muggle-born who disappeared in early 1998. Justin was a seventh-year, a Hufflepuff, a friend, and the reason I'm divorced."

The Magical Law Enforcement Officer and the Auror didn't know what to say to that. So they said nothing and just watched as Field Auror Longbottom began to sob.

* * *

Every footstep felt as though it were getting heavier and heavier as Neville Longbottom walked through the same London street as Dean Thomas had eight months earlier. He didn't even give a damn that he was still in full Auror robes and getting quite a few looks from the muggles surrounding him; they didn't have this burden weighing heavily on their hearts.

He strode dramatically into the Leaky Cauldron, one giant contrast from the boy who used to visit with his gran. Even under Hannah's expertise, the pub retained its dingy air, though its clientele had not been diminished to the calibre of those who frequented the Hog's Head. Neville spotted several witches and wizards he knew, both well and those he could just about fit a name to. This, he supposed, was one of the disadvantages of having lived over the pub.

His ex-wife noticed him immediately from her position behind the bar. Her look of surprise changed abruptly to anger and Neville instinctively ducked to avoid an imaginary hex. Hannah marched out to meet him in the middle of the floor.

"Are you serious, Neville?" she demanded. "It's a Tuesday night. You have to stop coming by here midweek. You get to see her at weekends, that's the deal," Hannah growled, hitting him with her cloth.

"Hannah," Neville began.

"And really, it's just petty of you to come and steal _my_ time," she continued to rant. "It's been two years, it's about time you started respecting..."

"I'm not here as your ex-husband, Hannah," Neville said quietly.

Hannah stopped in her tracks, about to resume her tirade. He wasn't rising to her level. He wasn't even attempting to defend himself, the wrongly accused. He was using his serious voice.

"Well, what do you want, then?" she sighed, tired.

"Can we go in a back room? This is information of a sensitive nature..." Neville attempted to play the formal, detached Auror but his voice wobbled a little.

"Neville, anything you have to say to me can be said in front of these people," Hannah said brazenly, looking around at all the curious customers.

"Please, Han," he begged quietly. He felt as though he were about to cry again. He hadn't felt this helpless since long before he left school. Why had he insisted this was his discovery, his wife, his responsibility? Why hadn't he let one of the others do it? He knew why, deep down. This would be best, easiest, for Hannah. This would be kindest. This would also be the hardest.

"Fine," she relented, striding into the back room and leaving him to freely follow.

"Look, could you please sit down, Hannah?" Neville asked nervously.

He felt seventeen again, quivering with nerves around a then-taken Hannah Abbott who once told him she thought he was the best friend a girl could have, but she had a boyfriend. Maybe he felt that way because there had never been a resolution. One day she had just stopped telling him she was taken, the next she had started hanging out with him, insisting that it was over as soon as Justin returned. Then, somewhere along the line, Neville and Hannah had become a relationship of its own and they were married with a daughter.

Yet it never really had been its own relationship, had it? Justin was always there in the background and, the truth was, Neville had never known Hannah as a single being. Now he was about to meet her.

She sighed, resigned, with an edge of worry, and dropped unceremoniously into an armchair.

"Neville, this had better be important..."

"Justin's dead," Neville said hurriedly, a thousand condolences and explorations falling down his throat, trying to claw their way back up.

Hannah did not react as he had expected. Instead of sobs he was greeted with fragile rage.

"You brought me in here to throw pointless theories at me, _again?_" she demanded incredulously. "What is it this time? 90% of muggle-born wizards lost their wands in the war? 30% of..."

"I found his body," Neville interrupted quietly. "I'm sorry, Hannah, but it's definitely him and..." he began to ramble, trailing off only when he noticed the tears brimming in her eyes as she froze in shock.

"How can you be sure?" she asked, her voice pleasantly detached.

Neville silently pressed the Galleon into her palm, glad to be rid of the wretched thing. It was rusty and looked far older than her own. She clutched it tightly, as though trying to squeeze out any residual traces of him. Neville didn't want to know what was going on in her head as he saw her struggle with pent-up emotion.

"Ironic it was you," she let out in a bitter cackle. "Out of all the Aurors."

They sat in silence, Neville feeling out of place. A few years previously this would have been his domain; she would be in his arms right now and they would work through this together, probably coming out stronger. Their split had happened already, however, so he was fated to sit there. It wasn't appropriate for him to go near her in this moment of private grief.

Suddenly she could hold in no longer and she burst into anguished tears.

"He's really gone," she sobbed. "I always thought he would come back to me!"

Looking up, she saw him, as if truly seeing him for the first time. "Neville," she addressed him. "Nev... I..."

Her sobs drowned out her words as she looked at him and drowned in a fresh wave of tears. This he took as his cue, propriety be damned. He pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair.

"Shh," he whispered cautiously. "You've got me. You've always got me."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," was all she could muster.

* * *

Two days later, Neville and Hannah were standing outside the Leaky Cauldron's back entrance, a bundle of screaming toddler encased in Neville's arms.

"You're sure you don't need anything else?" Neville triple-checked.

Hannah nodded wearily. "I just need to be alone for a bit," she said blankly.

She was lost; he saw that. He knew that he had never known no-Justin Hannah but he hadn't realised until that moment that perhaps she herself wasn't sure of her identity without him.

Unsure what further to say, the pair stood in a lengthy silence, fraught with many layers of tension and uncertainty.

"I'll bring her back on Monday," Neville promised. "If you need me to keep her for longer or..." he added, trailing off quietly.

Hannah nodded again.

"I'll be off then," her ex-husband mumbled. He turned away and drew his wand to tap the appropriate bricks. As he had Alice, he would be taking a Portkey from Diagon Alley to his home in Hogsmeade. She almost turned to return to the pub but at the last minute decided there were words that still needed to pass between them. She caught his arm, the first voluntary contact between them since the divorce.

He stiffened in surprise at the gentleness of the touch.

"Wait," she murmured softly. "Nev... Thank you. For everything. These last days... these last years. You've been so... I've been so..."

He smiled, feeling a sudden release. "Don't worry about it," he replied. "I love you, Hannah. I think I always will in one way or another. Look after yourself. You need anything..."

"I know, I know," she interrupted, the briefest eidolon of a smile gracing her lips. Spontaneously, she reached around the baby to hug him and he hugged her back. It reminded her how safe she had always felt with him; safe from the world. Yet once more she would have to leave that protection and face her grief. She pulled away, kissed the baby and floated back into the building.

Neville made his trek back to the Scottish village. He had thought he was okay but this was soon proved wrong as he settled Alice in her room in the huge, empty house.

Maybe if it weren't for the house, he'd have been just fine. Justin never meant much to _him_ but the emotional toll of the past days came to the surface as he looked around the house that had been bought for married life. A quaint cottage in Hogsmeade village was no bachelor pad, no matter how much he tried to convince himself.

Images flashed through his mind. Justin's skeleton. Alone. Hannah, crying in loneliness; whether she was 27 or 17 he couldn't tell. Himself, alone in this house. Justin's skeleton. Justin's skeleton. The tiny, stupid coin.

Suddenly, Neville could see nothing else. The skeleton and the coin had been gracing his nightmares since he first saw them. His chest convulsed and, body wracked with sobs, he sank to the floor, rocking desperately.

**Up next: In a ficlet, James Potter starts Hogwarts just as Teddy Lupin is leaving it.**


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